Archive for February 27th, 2006
It was 3am at 3000m above sea level and we had just been woken from our restless sleep by our guide. We were all feeling nervous from the anticipation of the climb ahead. A quick cup of tea and a muesli bar and we were off. Except for by brother Phil. I could see he was visibly upset. The cameraman was filming everything. Phil looked into the lens and told the world that he had to pull out. Holding back tears he explained that he just didn’t have any energy left and that he felt ashamed. He walked off and retired to his tent.
The summit of Gunung Rinjani stands at 3726m on the island of Lombok, Indonesia . The mountain itself is part of a series of massifs that form an enormous volcanic calderas. Lying within this calderas is a new semi active volcano, Gunung Baru. Forming a crescent around this new cone is Segara Anak which is a fresh water lake home to a multitude of Carp.
Our expedition began in a small village on the northern slopes of Rinjani. From our guest house we could see Rinjani’s summit and its long, angular ridge line. For all of us it was an imposing site. We were all climbing for various reasons. Some needed an adventure, others a challenge, while I was here filming the struggle the nine other trekkers would undertake to reach Rinjani’s summit. My brother Phil needed an adventure. He had a one year old at home and a pregnant wife with his second, so I guess (though I never have asked him) he needed something for himself, to relive a bygone day when he felt more important and to some extent his own person.
The first day from Senaru is a long and at times grueling climb through lush rain and cloud forests. Grey Macaques and Ebony monkeys swung through the forests canopy, pausing occasionally to spy on their unusual biped cousins below. Buttress roots gauged there way across the worn path frequently forming steps that were just a little higher than a natural stride. After 6 hours we had reached base camp three which stands approximately 500 vertical metres below the volcano’s rim. It was a difficult climb. Phil rested in his tent for most of the afternoon complaining of feeling weary and having sore knees.
By dinner time we were all starving so we scoffed the Nasi Goreng down with gusto. Phil took one mouth full and quickly ran off to the bushes to vomit. Repeatedly. Very loudly. It was like some enormous beast growling in the bushes. I went to comfort him and soon realised that we were standing in amongst a thicket of Stinging Nettle; an extremely painful weed that can takes days to clear up. Phil was oblivious to this as he was concentrating on his vomiting bear impersonation. I slowly backed us out of harms way and took Phil to his tent. In the moment of illness, of stomach cramps and sweating brows he mumbled to me that he couldn’t go on and that he wanted to head back to Senaru. I asked him to sleep on it and we would reassess it in the morning.
My restless sleep was broken by the sweet chirping of morning birds. I exited my tent to film the morning sites and sounds. The porters were already busying themselves with breakfast preparations while the trekker’s tents moaned, groaned and vibrated like enormous purple beetles. I slid into Phil’s tent to see how he was. Physically he remained weak and sore, but the feeling of defeat had waned and he was prepared to go on and see how he would do.
Another difficult climb awaited us, but we could see the rim of the crater and our spirits rose with every metre closer to it. Until midday, the air around Rinjani remains crystal clear and as we climbed we would pause to look behind us to see the awesome volcanoes of Bali rise from the sea. Then all of a sudden, that rock and grass that we had been looking at beneath our feet for the last two days fell away into one of the world’s most amazing gaping holes. The horizon flung itself 8 km from us as we walked up to the rim, witness to Segara Anak and Gunung Baru rising from its depths.
But more impressive than that was the summit of Gunung Rinjani. From our vantage point we could see what we had to do to get to the summit. We could see the camp site by the lake and the steep climb to base camp 4 on the other side of the calderas. And finally we could see the intimidating ridge climb all the way to the summit. From here we wondered how on earth we were going to get there. God knows what Phil was thinking. This would have been the last chance for him to turn around, as by the time we had reached the lake’s shore he would have been half way between the two towns that could offer him safety. I didn’t tell him this. He picked up his pack and led the expedition down the inside of the calderas to our camp for the night.
By the time we reached the lake camp several other trekkers started to feel the pain. One had a nasty fall on his way down though he escaped any real injuries. Others who were full of humour and spirit two days prior were more introspective, while another dehydrated himself and found himself vomiting uncontrollably. Phil remained composed, mustering all he had to continue the climb, wasting no energy on swimming or talking terribly much. The camp site itself was ideally perched on the top a small 5m cliff that over looked the lake and the tranquil scene before it. By mid afternoon the lake itself was hardly visible though we were only metres from it. The warmed low lands had shot cooler air up the valley into the lake, forming giant cloud banks that whirled and danced across the water in a mystical rhythm. The summit we had been eyeing off all day also vanished, so we all retired to some nearby thermal hot pools to soak our weary bodies. By dinner our spirits had lifted. We all slept well that night 2200m above sea level on the shores of our volcanic lake.
The following morning began exactly the same as the previous one. Birds chirped, porters prepared and tents moaned and groaned. But you couldn’t help feeling happy and excited waking up to banana pancakes, a hot cup of tea and a view rarely rivaled. The air was fresh and clean and our bodies felt like they were acclimatizing to the outdoor life. We rested until lunch, waiting for the clouds to come in before attempting to climb up the other side of the calderas to base camp 4. Without the clouds and the subsequent breeze, the climb would be stifling hot and almost unbearable. Phil started to feel better. He was holding his food down and after a massage from one of the other trekkers, his muscles and knees felt slightly better. He led out of camp once again, this time just carrying a day pack to conserve energy for the summit climb. Four others had passed their laden backpacks onto the porters as they too were still feeling the strain of the last few days. We filmed their bodies move up the slope, disappearing into the swift cloud banks like silhouetted spirits.
Most of the group made good progress. The terrain was rough, rocky and steep. The buttress roots that zigzagged across the path only two days prior were replaced by small boulders that once again forced us to step upward with unusually long strides. We focused our filming on one of the other trekkers this day. He was really struggling and as we climbed higher, swore that he could see elephants walking up the path. He staggered into camp several hours after the first had arrived, utterly spent. What I didn’t know was that Phil was fighting his own battle. His stomach cramps returned and his knees were aching from the climb up. He remained determined but I sensed defeat. It wasn’t anything he said, as the words coming out of his mouth were positive. It was the way he looked at the mountain. In fact he had been looking at the summit like that for a couple of days as if to say “You’re a lot bigger than I thought you were”.
The feeling around the camp was high. We were the only ones at base camp, and on this narrow cliff edge we had amazing views of the lake and by now the setting sun over Bali . We were above the clouds. We were at the place that would take some of us to the summit. We were all a bit nervous.
That night, while sitting by the camp fire, I could hear Phil quietly crying in his tent. He started to feel ill again and his knees were aching from the days climb. There was little I could do except sit there. We were due to leave camp in 6 or 7 hours, so I suggested he get some rest and we’ll reassess how he feels at 3am.
Most of the group had retired for the night. I checked and double checked the camera gear for the climb. I didn’t want to go to my tent too early as I knew I would lay there for hours wondering if everything would be alright, if anyone would pullout, if anyone would get hurt. I slid into the tent I was sharing with Phil at about 9pm . This was late, usually it was around 7pm . I convinced myself I was tired and ready for sleep. Naturally I wasn’t, and I lay there until midnight wondering all those things I didn’t want to wonder.
This brings me back to the start of the story. I understood Phil’s reasoning. It was the right decision and a brave one at that. But I couldn’t help feeling disappointed and to a small degree, frustrated for him. He had come so far and so close to achieving a goal he had set, only to stop 800 vertical metres from it. I gave him a hug and then gathered the others together for our departure.
The moon was full and hung well aloft, illuminating the narrow path that led to the main ridge to the summit. This is a steep climb, made worse by the scree underfoot. Once the ridge was reached, the stronger climbers went ahead with their guide. I remained mid way between those at the front and the stragglers. Occasionally I set up the camera to film the thoughts of the climbers and to give an up date of events.
After two hours, we were at the base of the final and most grueling part of the ridge that leads straight to the summit. I looked back along the ridge to see small spots of light swaying from side to side then stopping. Sway. Stop. Sway. Stop. It was a rhythm familiar to me now. Several lights were well down the ridge. Their progress was excruciatingly slow. It was Gerrard and JJ. In a way I wished one of them would pull out. Not because I didn’t want them to succeed, but because I didn’t want Phil to be alone. I wanted to show him that it wasn’t just him, that the mountain can take its toll on anyone.
The sun was starting to illuminate the horizon. I could see its warm glow to the east still 30 or 40 minutes from revealing its true brilliance. It is this part of the climb that tests ones metal. The 40 degree pitch coupled with scree and scoria base makes climbing not only exhausting but tedious. 15 steps up, slide back five and then stop. This was the rhythm of this mountain climb. 15 steps and stop. I needed to get to the summit before sunrise so I pushed on ahead of the 5 last climbers.
It was 6am when I reached Rinjani’s summit. I shook hands with the others that had reached the top and congratulated them on their effort. This was the second time I had been standing here in the last nine months and for some reason I thought I wouldn’t enjoy it as much as the first time. I guess that elation that I had done it wasn’t there but I felt as proud and satisfied as ever. Not only had I climbed to the summit, but I was the leader of my first expedition and I was filming for a documentary. These added pressures had made the summit just as satisfying as the first time.
I set up the camera and tripod just below the summit platform and filmed the rising sun over Sumbawa . It was incredible. I could see the world’s largest volcano; Tambora; to the east and the shadow cast by Rinjani’s mass on the horizon to the west. I filmed the lake and the swift clouds that rushed over the lip of the crater. Finally I filmed the battle still being waged on the mountain by JJ and Gerrard.
I remember one shot of the ridge line which showed JJ slowly plodding into the bottom left hand corner of the frame. He stopped and took in the view, then took ten more steps before stopping again. After another rest, he soldiered on stopping soon after and looking up along the ridge. He finally plodded out of the top right of frame. This shot took up 4 minutes of tape and the distance walked would be no more than 50 meters.
I pointed the camera towards a large boulder outcrop that dominates the top of the ridge line, just below the summit. From here it is an easy walk up to the top. Coming along this path was JJ and Gerrard, accompanied by Craig (a Personal Trainer) who had motivated them up the mountain. They were exhausted but absolutely thrilled with their achievement. After the mandatory summit shots and a rest, we all headed back down to base camp.
Phil was waiting for our return. I could see his disappointment. He told me that he had vomited just after we left camp and watched our head lamps bob up and down along the ridge line. While everyone else was exhausted, they all had a look of satisfaction. Phil wandered around camp aimlessly, quiet and depressed
Our walk back to a small village on the eastern slope of Rinjani must have been agonisingly long for him. He walked quietly, answering questions briskly and never starting a conversation. I shared a room with him for the last few days before heading home. Phil remained tense and unresponsive to encouragement. He told me that this was the last trip he would do for years. He blamed his wife and fatherhood for this. I was getting frustrated with his continued melancholy but what could I say? I had to let it go.
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Two weeks after our return, we were invited over to Phil’s for dinner. I wasn’t sure how to handle talking about Rinjani. Should I avoid the topic? The night went fine. We all talked about Rinjani openly. Phil’s spirit returned and we talked about the film and when it would be completed. He told me that he had a great idea for another film. Always interested I lent him my ear. He told me it would be about him and a mountain in Lombok . The film would be called “Unfinished Business”.
February 27th, 2006
Early on a warm morning in the town of Labuan Bajo (Port Bajo) on the Indonesian island of Flores , we waited patiently for our guide to collect us for our expedition to see the biggest member of the Varanus family. Our guide, Bona Ventura, just like “Ace” he said, collected us after a visit to the local markets to stock the boat for our impending trip. Our journey to their island home began with a short dugout canoe trip to the boat that would be our home for the next three days. The ‘Alba’ was a clean looking boat that had plenty of room for both Andrew and myself and appeared it would provide us with a relaxed environment for our journey. Once on board we stowed our gear and met the crew, twenty one year old Noval, our captain for the trip, and his two deck hands John and Jos, both who were only fifteen.
The waters around Labuan Bajo were tranquil with hardly a ripple until Noval started the two diesel engines of the Alba. We quickly discovered our home for the next three days had no mufflers! With the loud throng of our boat reverberating off the other boats in the harbour and probably the hills in the distance we set off for our first destination, the Island of Rinca , pronounced ‘Rincha’. Soon after setting off, Bona served our first meal, a range of tropical fruits washed down with bottled water and black tea. After a surprisingly relaxing three hour trip past numerous small Islands and the remnants of the Western end of Flores we motored into a secluded bay. Tying up to a small pier we were about to come face to face with our first Komodo dragon. At the end of the pier was a small shelter providing shade to a couple of Indonesian locals. Underneath the small platform they were sitting on was a two meter dragon looking as relaxed as the two men sitting above it. Bona produced a small bag of fish and proceeded to offer it to the dragon. With out hesitation it scoffed the lot including the plastic bag! Initially Andrew and I were a little disappointed as it felt like this dragon was staged and was only hanging around because of people like Bona feeding it. That may have been true of this individual but we were soon to see many more dragons away from obvious human habitation and influence.
It was only a couple of years ago that Komodo ‘feeding’ shows were stopped. These shows were put on for tourists who could witness a ‘pack’ of dragon’s tearing a goat to pieces. With an increased understanding of the dragon’s ecology, it was realised that this was putting undue pressure on the population and could be one of the reasons for the increasing difference between the male and female population. Offerings of large animals by humans are now only done by rangers and researchers when they want to attract animals for research requirements.
The walk on Rinca takes about two hours starting with a short section from the pier to the ranger station where you can pay your entrance fees and collect your special forked stick. The Rangers indicated that if you are attacked by a dragon while on the walk you should thrust the stick into its mouth this should make it drop to the ground and go to sleep? I was not sure how poking a forked stick into the mouth of a three meter lizard was going to make it go to sleep but I didn’t really care as I wasn’t going to get into a position to have to try it!
The walk was interesting with our small group coming across numerous animals including water buffalo, large centipedes, flying lizards and of course dragons. We walked through thick forest and scrub and out into open grasslands which appeared to include many species that were familiar to me from Australia . The island was very dry however the plant species we saw showed that it can be quite wet. Stag horn ferns and orchids covered the trunks and filled the forks of many trees and provided a welcome contrast to the dry brown surrounds. Many of the orchids were in flower and were quite beautiful. What a contrast, the delicate beauty of the orchids just above the lumbering bodies of the prehistoric dragons.
On returning to the Alba we motored away from the pier and onto our next destination, a small island off the coast of Komodo Island . Bona said that we were soon to see many flying foxes leaving their daytime roost for an evening of foraging on the surrounding islands. When Bona said many we were not prepared for the numbers we were going to experience. We arrived at the island just on dusk, a little later than Bona had anticipated, as we had taken too long on Rinca looking around for animals. The island was unlike most others we had past; it was low, only one to two meters high and covered in mangroves. As we approached we could already see a stream of flying foxes leaving the island. We had already experienced the Indonesian habit of underestimation of time, distance, etc. and Bona’s description of many was just one more. For the short time we were anchored off the island we witnessed tens of thousands of flying foxes flying off to feed. It was an awesome sight.
Just before we set off for our mooring for the night we were visited by a small boat load of villagers selling carvings of dragons and other locally produced souvenirs. It seems no place is exempt from the pressures of needing to make a living, even out on a boat in the middle of this isolated part of the world. After a short round of haggling we set off in the dark for the pier on Komodo Island . On arriving we weighed anchor ate our dinner and settled down for bed.
The next morning we rose around 5am and set out to find more dragons. This time however it would actually be on the Island that gave them their name. Only a short walk from the pier through the ranger station we discovered over a dozen large dragons lumbering out of the scrub to start the days foraging. The day was perfect, the temperature was around 25C with not a breath of wind and the light of the rising sun made for an awesome sight. We were able to get quite close to the dragons with many that we saw wandering past less than a metre away. You could almost smell their breath.
Seeing the dragons on Komodo heralded the end of our adventure and we boarded the Alba for the trip west across the Sape Straight to the island of Sumbawa . The small port town of Sape on Sumbawa is where we would catch the overnight bus and ferry that would get me back to Mataram in Lombok for my flight back to Bali and then home to Australia .
While this trip provided so many opportunities to experience the island culture and see animals and plants that I had only ever seen in books, Andrew decided future trips will be increased from three to six days and include the North Coast of Sumbawa and not just the Islands of Komodo and Rinca. This would provide an opportunity to experience the wildlife, culture and scenery of Sumbawa as well as more chances to relax and do some snorkeling and fishing on the reefs along the way.
February 27th, 2006
On a hot and steamy afternoon in late October we arrived on the island of Flores in the small port town of Labuan Bajo. Renault a French web designer, Lyndal an Australian Paramedic and myself, a self professed jack of all trades and master of none had travelled to the eastern end of Indonesia in search of one of the world’s most awesome animals, the Komodo dragon. In Labuan Bajo we met Aleksander, a pleasant young man who was our contact and the man that had our boat organised to take us to the island home of the Komodo dragon.
As it was already getting late and we had an early start in the morning, Aleksander dropped us off at the Hotel where we had a quick wash and then set off to have dinner at one of the many restaurants along the main street. With so many to choose from we had trouble first deciding where to eat but soon decided on one that had a great view of the bay that Labuan Bajo was built on. After a very filling and cheap dinner of local culinary delights we set off back to our hotel for a good night sleep.
Rising at 6:00 the next morning we packed our bags and set off with Aleksander to meet the crew that would be looking after us for the next three days. Our boat, the Alba was captained by a young Indonesian by the name of Noval, a fully licensed seafarer operating his Uncle’s boat. Novals crew consisted of 2 younger boys; John and Jos both about fifteen. I wasn’t sure and I don’t think they knew either. On board was everything we needed for our trip, food, water, snorkelling equipment and ice for the beer we had bought (the only thing other than soft drink that wasn’t supplied). Settling in we stowed our gear on the deck and Noval set off, motoring out of the harbour towards our first destination, Bidadari Island.
Earlier that month I had been snorkelling off the Gilli island on the North east coast of Lombok and what we saw there was no comparison to the underwater life in the waters around Bidadari. Anchoring on a small patch of sand so as not to damage the coral we stripped off to our swimming attire, donned our snorkelling gear and jumped in to the crystal clear waters. Fish of all types, clams of every colour imaginable and coral of all shapes and sizes greeted us as we floated around the boat. After an hour or so we paddled back over to the boat where we boarded for a light refreshment of fresh fruit, tea and coffee. While we settled down Noval set off to our next stop, Rinca Island, and our first opportunity to see the legendary Komodo dragon.
On arriving at Rinca the build up of some ominous looking clouds were starting to appear over the island. We ignored them, as you would when you were about to see the world’s largest lizard for the first time. Mooring at the harbour we gathered our camera gear and some water in a small pack and set off to the ranger station. At the end of the pier we saw our first dragon a mid sized animal about two meters long. It was resting under a group of mangroves just near the path and we were less than two meters from it when we walked past. We were met at the ranger station by a very energetic ranger who then led us to the start of the walk which led up a dry river bed. We learnt from our Ranger Guide that Komodo dragons let unsuspecting animals, us included, to wander quite close pretending to be asleep or dead and then when we get close enough they spring into action inflicting a bite that usually results in death due to severe infection. The infection results from the huge amounts of bacteria in their saliva. The dragons use this bacteria to their advantage and are able to bring down animals substantially larger than then selves such as fully grown buffalo. As we walked up the river bed the clouds grew larger and larger, blacker and blacker and the distant thunder was now not so distant. Not that we really cared as the temperature was starting to climb into the mid thirties and some rain would bring some relief from the heat. At the end of the walk we came across a small muddy water hole where many of the islands animals had congregated to cool down in the shade and have a much needed drink. In amongst the buffalo, deer, monkeys and Megapod birds were some opportunistic Komodo dragons that were lying in wait for one of the animals to stray too close. We sat and watched the animals doing what animals do while they stared back nervously wondering what we were doing at their water hole. Not that they would understand that all we wanted was some great photos to take back to show our family and friends.
With a loud clap of thunder that seemed to come from the sky above us we decided that it would be a good idea to head back to the ranger station before we got wet. Too late. After walking only 100 meters the rain started to fall, only lightly at first but as every second passed the drops seemed to get bigger and bigger and more and more frequent until it felt like someone was throwing buckets of water on us. We started to walk quite quickly but were forced to slow down as the rain had turned our track into a muddy slippery dip and it was taking all our concentration just to stay up right. An added problem to our trip back to the ranger station was that mud from the track was sticking to our shoes and with each step our feet became heavier and heavier not to mention more awkward to move. We finally made it back soaked to the bone and our legs covered in mud. The ranger station has a small undercover seating area which we headed to to take cover from the monsoonal bucketing. Once under cover though, the rain stopped, just as quickly as it had started. What perfect timing.
After trudging back to the boat we set off, this time for Kalong Island or as it is some times called “Flying fox Island”. This name comes from the tens of thousands of Flying foxes that call the small mangrove covered island home. That is, they usually call it home. On our arrival we were expecting to see the flying foxes all leaving their daytime roost for the evenings foraging on the other nearby islands, however all but a handfull had either already gone or had not been there in the first place. We were a little disappointed but as we had already seen so much the disappointment did not last for very long. Especially after we opened a couple of Bintang beers and sat back to watch the sun set over Komodo Island in the distance. This was topped off by the two deck hands John and Jos serving a fantastic meal of fish, fried rice, fresh vegetables and Tempe. We were all excited about the next day, our journey to the world famous Komodo Island.
That night we slept on board the boat, gently rocking back and forth with the movement of the water. Apart from the humidity which made it a little hard to get to sleep it was a great way to spend a night. In the morning we woke with the rising sun and set off early for Komodo. By 6:30am we were on Komodo and setting off on the walk around the Ranger station to try and spot some more dragons. Our new Ranger guide walked us through the dry scrub of Komodo past many trees covered in beautiful purple and white orchids, stag ferns hanging off the trees in the cooler gullies and many of the islands animals, including a dead pig in a tree. But no Dragons. As it turned out we didn’t see any Dragons on the island apart from those near the ranger station. The ranger informed us that they were spread out over the whole island in search for the scarce water sources. Unlike Rinca the island hadn’t received any rain yet and was still very dry from the past six months of dry season weather. Nonetheless the walk around the island was still great as we saw so many other animals and interesting plants.
Leaving Komodo Island we headed for Red Beach for some more under water adventure, seeing once again numerous species of fish, coral and an interesting looking brown and white spotted eel. From Red Beach we set off for our final night stop, Kanawa Island while we ate our lunch. Once again prepared by our very capable deckhands, John and Jos. On Arriving at Kanawa Island we moored at the end of a one hundred meter long wooden pier that led down to a pristine white beach and a small low budget holiday resort. Before we set off to explore the island we were able to sit and watch a group of locals fishing off the end of the pier and on a couple of small boats moored to the pier. They fished, not with the normal bait on a hook method, but with a heavily weighted hook that they threw out into the large schools of fish under the pier. Once the hook had sunk under the school of fish they would rip the rod up into the air hoping to snag a fish as the hook flew through the school. As we watched they caught only three fish for maybe one hundred attempts so it seemed to be quite a lot of effort for not much return.
Noval let us know we had about an hour before our dinner would be ready so we had ample time to explore the area around the resort. Ranualt and I decided we would go and have a beer before dinner but soon found out that the generator was only turned on in the late afternoon and that the beer was still warm, so we all wandered around checking out the resort. The owner had some time in the past brought a couple of Timor deer to the island as pets one of which we found asleep under a tree near the bar with warm beer. This deer acted more like a dog and would respond to a good pat and scratch under the chin. Along with the tame deer the Island had a resident eagle that was able to be approached quite closely. More so by the locals that would feed it a fish or two from their daily catch (I doubt though that the guys at the end of the pier would give up one of their three fish). After our exploring session we wandered back to the boat, ate our dinner and settled down for the night once again to a magnificent sunset.
The last day of our trip saw us doing some more exploring and also some snorkelling on Kanawa Island before heading off to Kalong Island where Lyndall and Renault relaxed on the beach while I climbed to the highest point on the island to see what I could see. What I saw was a perfect view of Kalong Island and the clear blue seas which stretched for hundreds of kilometres all around me. After lunch at Kalong Island it was back to Labuan Bajo via Bidadari Island for some more snorkelling. Arriving at Labuan Bajo we were met once again by Aleksander who took us back to our hotel, before we flew out back to Bali the next day.
February 27th, 2006
Private. Heavenly. An extravagant and luxurious respite away from city urban life. Bintan in Indonesia is but 45 minutes away from Singapore by high-speed catamaran.
The 350sq m 2-bedroom sea front Indra Maya villa my family had was spacious, tastefully furnished, clean and tidy. More than the usual coffee and tea amenities at the very private villa, the Indra Maya provides more - scented candles, incense and water features within each villa itself. This thoughtful gesture made one feel at home and pampered. Our suite had a sizeable pool and across the pool is the open sea. Absolutely enchanting and picturesque, just like a picture out of the “rich and famous” lifestyle magazines. But only this time it was real for my family and I. We were in such a heavenly surrounding.
The bedrooms and bathrooms are huge. For choice, the master bedroom even boasts of a private open-air bath, like the ones we see in spa advertisements. The open-air bath is shielded from prying eyes by tall trees and shrubs. Neighbours are a distance away and privacy is guarded. At the time I was there, the price of a 2-bedroom suite was Singapore Dollars 550++ per night but it was money worth spending. We were treated to spaciousness, luxury and privacy. It was a family getaway and with the pool fronting the hall, we felt safe to leave the children on their own at the pool.
The hall has big sofas that could easily double as a bed. Even though it was stipulated that each such villa can accommodate 4-5 people, my view is that I could double this number easily, that is, if guests do not mind sleeping on the big sofas or on the floor in the hall and also if the management of the Indra Maya does not mind (you bet they do!).
The exclusive Indra Maya estate has only 14 villas. Access from each suite to the main hotel lobby and elsewhere within the Nirwana Gardens Resort is by buggy. Individual buggy is parked outside each suite, so getting around the estate is not a problem at all.
The Indra Maya is part of the Nirwana Garden chain of hotels that also comprise the Nirwana Resort Hotel, Mayang Sari Beach Resort, and the Banyan Biru Resort. Inter-hotel charging is allowed and this means you get a wider choice of food outlets.
The main hotel lobby serves the guests of the Mayang Sari. Check-in for guests of the Indra Maya is in a separate room that doubles as a lounge. Free coffee and tea are available all day long at the lounge.
The sea fronts the South China Sea and sitting at the Verandah at the Mayang Sari for a meal or snack, one can take in the activities of sun-lovers and tanners. For more adventurous sports activities, you can visit the Mana Mana Beach Club.
A heavenly and relaxing stay such as this is not complete without a rub-down and pampering of the body. The Asmara Tropical Spas provides a wide range of spa treatments. My husband and I were pampered in a room for two. In between treatments, I was shepherded to an open-air bath similar to the one in our suite. Here I washed off my earlier treatment with milk bath from a jug. I was reminded of the Egyptian princess in the story of Moses. After the treatment, hubby and I were given a refreshing health drink that we had chosen earlier. We sipped our drinks in a quaintly-styled waiting area where all was quiet. It was definitely reminiscent of things Indonesian, Balinese, Thai and of well-organized spas. Quiet, peaceful and private with the sound of trickling water, I can almost feel the coolness of the place as I write this.
The Indra Maya. Ah - one of the extravagant luxuries in life. I will be back.
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Fact File
Room Rates
The rate mentioned above is exclusive of 10% Government Tax and 10% Service Charge. The accommodation rate is inclusive of land transfer from Bintan Beach International Resort ferry terminal to the hotel, breakfast (for 4 passengers), and a welcome drink upon arrival.
Currency
Indonesian Rupiah (Rp) is the official currency but Singapore Dollar (SGD) is generally acceptable.
February 27th, 2006
Business in a traditional market is quite unique. Lots of specialists discover their true talents and find their niche in life conducting their trade in the boisterous and often hectic atmosphere of these markets. Markets are not only the realm of buyers and sellers, but also a place where those with a particular talent can flourish by providing much needed services.
Working with scissors, a piece of chalk, a needle and thread and a swing machine are the forever busy traditional tailors. In only a few short hours, they can create a new outfit or within a few minutes efficiently adjust one that no longer fits or needs mending.
One place where these tailors flourish is the Kebon Roek market, one of the biggest markets in Ampenan, close to the airport and conveniently on the way to Senggigi Lombok,Indonesia.
It is not difficult to find them in the Kebon Roek market, situated some 15 metres from the market gate. They are in the middle of vegetables, fruit and clothe seller. Rabiah and her sister Nikmah and hers husband Asri, busily working away on their sewing machines.
So busy was Rabiah taking orders from customers,that I have to wait to be able to talk to her. And when we could finally talk to her, the 72 year-old grandma was back at work with her hands and feet constant motion at the sewing machine.
Although they have had no formal education these people are talented. Its very close to being an art form yet their humility is something to be admired. She has been sewing for 40 years never even had a chance to learn to read. For Rabiah and Asri just seeing, feeling and hard work they are able to attract many customers.
They are content with what they have, They dont dream of better machines and new techniques; they are happy with what they have. And even though they can easily compete with the more upmarket tailors, they are reluctant to expand their business. Why make life difficult says Rabiah, We dont want to make life complicated, this is enough for us to be able to gather here with our other friends in the market
The physical condition of the machine used by Rabiah is like a dull and faded cloth. It is old but still works well and moves smoothly. A Chinese brand called butterfly, it was made in 1950.
Asri and his family have been in the garment business a long time and his children and nephews are also the business. One of his nephews, Sanhaz, has a small garment company in Kuta, Bali, creating T shirts that are sold to tourist and exported to Japan.
The skill is passed on from generation to generation. Asri learned from his father who is turned learned from his own father. According to Asri, his father was able to learn his skill from the Japanese during the colonial era when the country was under the Japanese rule. Quite a few of us learnt under the Japanese and from the Chinese, says Asri massaging his right arm which has been painful because of sewing for many years.
To have clothes mended, a customer need only wait the time it takes to a little shopping and the cost is around Rp1.000-Rp2.000. For a suit(skirt and blouse) the cost is between Rp.25.000 and Rp20.000 .Rabiah can finish a shirt with no sleeves in only one hour.
They work from 8 in the morning until 5 in the evening and make about Rp25,000 a day which only covers their costs and does not enable them to save. Theirs is hard life, but somehow you get the impression that despite all the difficulties, they are happy and proud of their skills. As in any city or town anywhere in the world a good tailor is always in hot demand-we all want to look good and they provide the means.
February 27th, 2006
We woke up to the sun’s earliest rays of light. It was really early, indeed, but today we had to prepare for the land cruise. Mom, who devoted most of her free time in the room washing clothes, checked her array of clean-but-wet clothes that she had hung on the balcony’s wooden fence. She was the earliest to be greeted by the salubrious breeze.
After breakfast, Simon, Agung’s friend in tourism business, picked us up. We’re bound for our last adventure in Lombok, that would cover the mountainous upper half of this island-from Senggigi in the west to Khayangan in the far east and back, stopping by that illustrious Sendang Gila Waterfall in the northern highlands of Bayan. We didn’t have more time to trek the majestic Mount Rinjani; we would encircle it instead.
The car climbed its way into Pusuk Forest (known to all as ‘monkey forest’), passing Sidemel, along whose road, every ten meters or so, stood a stall selling palm sugar syrup. Out of curiosity, I bought a bottle of it. Firstly, the smell was downright awful-like gastric gas!-and the taste was a bizarre blend of sugar sweet with a vinegarish tinge to it. Simon said that this beverage is good for health-somewhat cliché advertising-specifically for lowering blood pressure and reducing gastric pain. We all gave it a try, however, and none claimed to love it.
We stopped by a spot in Pusuk to feed the monkeys. They all came in many sizes, but from one species only. These monkeys, somehow akin to humans, showed respect (or fear, perhaps) to their leaders: There are two of them at that particular place, as Agung later told us, that have to have the peanuts first, otherwise, the rest won’t feel comfortable to feed from us-their eyes in constant watch at their unfed kings.
All was well until we heard Shierly’s yelp. A naughty monkey had bitten her. She was feeding with her right hand one peanut at a time, holding a lot more in her clasped left palm. But this cunning monkey seemed to know. It wanted to grab hold of the whole treasure, but Shierly kept her left hand tight, and pulled it away from the menacing monkey. It bit her, for sure, and left a three-millimeter deep cut on her index finger. What she did afterwards were merely looking at her wound and pushed it to let the blood out. Simon, as a gesture of his uncalled-for responsibility for the situation, applied on the wound the juice from certain leaves, taking it as “a natural remedy.”
Fearing the attack of tetanus or rabies, we decided to halt the land cruise and asked Simon to take us to the general hospital in Mataram. Forty minutes later, we pulled up right in front of the white-green building of RSU Mataram.
In a beautiful, bountiful, hassle-free land whose people are so cool and so used to doing everything the usual laid-back style, here are a few things you better not encounter: hospitals, fire brigade, cops. Here’s why. RSU Mataram is the best hospital in entire Lombok, but its service-I couldn’t help comparing it with those of my hometown-was nowhere near first-class. The pharmacists, the nurses, even the resident doctors were slow to act-as if nothing was really emergency in this Emergency Room.
The doctors were nice, of course, in the sense that they smiled a lot, trying to ease our worries. All was still well. Although monkeybite is rare, they said, it is not unheard-of. No matter what, thorough cleansing of the wound and, above all, the antitetanus shot, were necessary, the resident doctors added. As for rabies: We were assured that those monkeys in Pusuk were healthy ones. (Rabid animals tend to bite without provocation. A bite from a wild animal while feeding it, or trying to fondle it, as I later learned from a source in the Net, is considered a provoked attack.)
Altogether, the vaccination and the first-aid treatment of the wound cost about Rp 160k and lasted about less than an hour. At 11, we were all set to continue our voyage, but with a major change of route. Instead of circling Rinjani in clockwise direction, we would now travel counterclockwise.
Eastward we went, past Cakranegara-where we stopped for a while at the Chinese drugstore Tjintjin Lima to buy medication for Shierly’s wound-then Sweta, Narmada, thus into the entrance gate of Lombok’s middle part. The first town that captured our attention was Masbagik with its huge, regal mosque. Onwards, we drove smoothly past a sweep of green, thriving tobacco fields. An hour and several unremarkable towns later, we came into the eastern part of Lombok, whose people “all adhere very strictly to Islamic principles,” Simon noted.
Things are absolutely cheaper in east Lombok than in the west. This is perhaps due to the rarity, if not total absence, of foreign tourists coming and staying in this area. In the village of Wanasaba in Aikmel, we had a cheap lunch-Javanese noodle with meatballs-by the roadside, and bought snacks for a little sum of money at the neighboring warung. We were lucky to see here a very quirky but efficient method of knotting small plastic packages. This interested me very much that I wanted to try and learn. Regrettably, we left the place without mastering the art of it.
From there we moved on to Labuhan Lombok, Khayangan, on the east coast, then up north to Sambelia where we came across a patch of land where giant trees stood. Along the way, Simon had talked a lot about these giant trees. We were utterly awed to see them with our own eyes. These tree ferns-which number to at most fifty-stand to twenty meters tall, with a trunk diameter of no more than two meters from mid-height to top, but on the ground it probably reaches seven to ten meters thick.
The more you see the intricate reality of nature, the more humbled you will feel. We humans are naught compared to this colossal, immobile organism that has withstood the evolutionary test of time over millions of years. And yet, I said to myself, you haven’t seen the Sequoias-the most massive of all living beings on planet Earth.
En route to Senaru, we went by Obel-obel, whose view of the rugged coastal hills was mesmeric, with sun-drenched sea glittering like a meadow of sapphires. Look on the other side, and you’ll see cloud-capped mountains and plains awash in copious fields of corn and tobacco leaves. Fishing boats stranded on shore. Horses and cows grazing on lush pastures. Riverbeds with steel bridges above them serving no practical purpose: There was no water below. Sun shone much more fiercely here than in western Lombok-hence the patches of parched earth here and there, intermingled with coconut palms, banana and frangipani trees. This is the playground of Drought and Profusion. Still, everything feels like they are there only for you, the ultimate observer. Even the lonely bird that pompously soared the open sky while I was photographing. This is a treat of nature: You don’t get to see this kind of miracles everyday.
Half an hour driving through the jagged path with tortuous twists and turns into the heart of the jungle brought us to the highlands of Bayan, right at the slope of Mount Rinjani-Indonesia’s third-tallest mountain. In this height, the cool breeze is palpable. But no less tangible is the riotous blend of colorful flowers blossoming with intensity: pink impatiens and frangipani, yellow-white jasmine and blue hydrangeas amid a vivid multitude of green.
Simon motioned towards a cap-wearing man who seemed to be a local guide to the waterfall. This man politely introduced himself, “Padli,” showing us his official nametag. After a brief preparation, he led us in trekking down the valley. Sendang Gila thundered vociferously from afar.
It was an honor to be guided all along the trek by Padli, who usually went up and down guiding tourists several times a single day. His recounting of the waterfall’s myth was most illuminating: Legend says a lion once came from a forest and ravaged the villages. The villagers hunted it down, yet it managed to escape to this very spot-and disappeared. Through this hole then a waterfall emerged. In the reign of a certain king, an almost-impossible attempt was made to construct a massive waterway that would convey the clean, fresh water to the garden pool in the king’s palace. During the initial stages of construction, forty people, all connected to this project, suffered unexplained and terrible deaths-the plan was soon discontinued. To this supernatural mishap does the waterfall’s name owe its origin: “Singa-nggila” (crazy lion), which subsequently evolved to “Sendang Gila” in Sasak tongue.
A quarter of an hour and hundreds of stairs later, we finally had the idea how incredible this waterfall was. The voluminous amount of water it disgorges from three major cavities is testimony to its earned reputation. There were youngsters that played in the shallow pool where the water broke, luring us even more to join them-to get ourselves all wet.
Heny, Shierly and I came down to try the water. It was numbing cold. Showering below it feels so much like having your own personal oblivion: First, the roaring sound deafens the ears, then the white blades blind the eyes, and finally the liquid ice freezes the skin. Maybe the brain, too, dies, even if for an instant.
Soaking, we trailed back to where we had started, short of breath. We had a meager afternoon snack at Pondok Senaru, one of the many trek centers up here in the hills, before going away.
From Bayan, the car drove downhill and then westward. Before us was the crimson sun, slowly going down. In Gondang we stopped for a while to relish the ultimate sunset of our ten-day trip. The rest of the drive, through Tanjung and Pusuk (where we had originally wanted to start from), was done in twilight-then darkness. Sleepily, we talked with him about commodities of Lombok-tangy garlic, pumice, tobacco leaves-as the car wound its course home. We arrived at Senggigi at 8 p.m., feeling so hungry.
Throughout that demanding road trip, Simon showed us the prime qualities of a professional tour leader: excellent driver, elucidative storyteller and most importantly, understanding companion. He didn’t mind at all our arriving too late at Senggigi, due to that nasty situation in Pusuk. Rather, he had even offered us to dine in a restaurant where he regularly entertained guests. (He was, to our surprise, a solo piano performer as well!)
We didn’t dine at Ilir-ilir, which Simon had recommended, but at Happy Café in Senggigi instead. It was quite crowded at that time; live music was playing on stage. We sat at the far corner close to the street. Mom’s gado-gado didn’t fit her expectation, neither did my chicken lemon. But Shierly and Heny each savored the spaghetti bolognese and T-bone steak. We returned to Jayakarta Hotel all spent-and slept shortly.
February 27th, 2006
There was no CNN, no Internet and a high level of illiteracy when revolutionary ferment swept through Indonesia 60 years ago.
The occupying Japanese had surrendered but the Dutch colonialists refused to loosen their grip when on August 17, 1945, the nationalists Sukarno and Mohammad Hatta proclaimed the country’s independence.
Historic events were unfolding but with no modern media, how were authorities to tell the population? They turned to traditional puppets from Indonesia’s main island of Java.
Called “wayang kulit”, this shadow theatre with Hindu origins uses perforated leather figures, manipulated in front of an illuminated cotton screen stretched across a bamboo frame.
Seated cross-legged, the puppeteer, or dalang, animates his puppets by moving their arms using stems made of horn. He adopts the various voices of the characters he plays during an all-night performance that ends at dawn.
Accompanied by a “gamelan” orchestra of gongs, xylophones and other percussive instruments, the puppets sway and dance. Seated on the ground, the audience watches the puppets’ shadows.
Some enthusiasts sneak behind the screen to admire the talents of the puppeteer.
“A lot of people were illiterate. Wayang was an important way to bring the news. It was a sort of newspaper,” Stanley Bremer, director of the Wereldmuseum of Rotterdam, tells AFP.
On the 60th anniversary of Indonesian independence last Wednesday, this “museum of the cultures of the world” gave Jakarta, on an indefinite loan, a lavish collection of the revolutionary puppets it purchased in 1965.
Twenty years earlier as patriotic fervour bubbled to the surface in the vast archipelago, this centuries-old entertainment was diverted to revolutionary service in an effort to unify the villagers and spur on the nationalist sentiment personified by the charismatic Sukarno.
“It is what we called ‘wayang suluh’: to educate the population in an informal way about the meaning of the struggle for independence,” explains Aurora Tambunan, executive director of the Jakarta government cultural office.
The plays depicted patriotic leaders, independence fighters, civil servants, governors, Dutch colonialists, Japanese soldiers and common people. Photographs snipped from newspapers served as models.
Hatta, who become Sukarno’s vice-president, was a prominent figure among the puppets. Charismatic Sukarno was shown standing behind a lectern, in reference to a patriotic speech he made in Bandung city in the 1920s.
This kind of propaganda had been used in the past. Muslim preachers employed the wayang to spread Islam in the 15th century, and the sultans of Java employed the puppets to relate the history of their dynasties.
The gesture by the Wereldmuseum attests to the warm relations now shared between Indonesia and its former colonial master.
The Netherlands on Monday for the first time accepted the date of Indonesia’s independence as 1945, ending a dispute that had irritated relations.
Until then, the Dutch had insisted on recognising the date as December 27, 1949, when they transferred sovereignty after losing a four-year war.
The spectacle of the revolution puppets “is rather confronting because it is telling a story not always very nice”, says Bremer.
The 160 puppets were insured for 1,500 euros (1,842 dollars) for their trip from Rotterdam to Jakarta. But their real value is priceless.
Raymond Leeuwenburg, co-ordinator of the conservation department of the Wereldmuseum, praises the tiny details painted on the figures made of water-buffalo leather.
“They are very accurate. You can recognize people from Papua!” he exclaims, referring to residents of the country’s easternmost province, who have a Melanesian appearance.
The puppets will soon be on display at Jakarta’s wayang museum, shown in climate-controlled cases built by the Wereldmuseum to protect the fragile revolutionary heroes from the humidity, heat and pollution plaguing the capital of today’s — very independent — Indonesia.
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February 27th, 2006
Asia’s vanishing forests are home to many endangered species who may not survive the century. In the jungle of Borneo, Birute Mary Galdikas has spent the past three decades braving tropical diseases and violent encounters to study and defend some of the world’s last remaining orangutans.
Her research has unlocked many secrets of the primates considered one of man’s closest cousins and provided the backdrop to a remarkable life spent on the frontiers of science and civilisation. Jakarta correspondent Barry Neild travels deep into the Indonesian jungle for an encounter with the adventurous academic and the apes with whom she has formed a lifelong bond.
TANJUNG PUTING RESERVE, Indonesia, August 17, 2005 - Birute Mary Galdikas is enjoying a well-earned coffee on the wooden porch of her home when a huge and hairy hand reaches stealthily from below and grabs her cup. The drink is lifted to a pair of prodigiously puckered lips and slurped with noisy gusto.
“This is Siswi, the daughter of one of my best friends, Siswoyo,” Galdikas says, casually introducing the thirsty interloper who then proceeds to guzzle her way through a small mountain of tropical fruit.
Despite Galdikas’ familiarity with the ginger-haired orangutan who clambers onto the porch to offer her a rough and affectionate hug, Siswi’s presence is an increasing rarity in the trees around her Borneo home, where aggressive destruction of one of the world’s last remaining great ape habitats has led to a precipitous decline in their population.
Equally rare, perhaps, is Galdikas herself: a scientist whose boundless passion for the study and preservation of orangutans has repeatedly drawn her back to the hostile jungles of Indonesia and a life that is certainly unique among the few who share her profession.
Galdikas, born to Lithuanian parents and brought up in Canada, embarked on her lifelong quest to explore the world of great apes in 1971 after persuading eminent Kenyan palaeontologist Louis Leakey to recruit her as a researcher.
Leakey had already dispatched two other women on study missions to Africa — Jane Goodall whose investigations of chimpanzees has made her a household name, and Dian Fossey, whose life and murder in the mountains of the Congo was turned into the Sigourney Weaver film “Gorillas in the Mist”.
Galdikas, by then a University of California at Los Angeles graduate of psychology and zoology, was to become the third of “Leakey’s Angels”, exploring the mysterious “people of the forest”, about which very little was then known.
“Initially I wanted to go to Sumatra, but Dr Leakey said there were already Dutch scientists working with orangutans there. He said he had something different in mind for me and sent me to Borneo,” she recalls over another cup of coffee that she keeps safely out of Siswi’s reach.
Alongside a small area of Indonesia’s Sumatra island, Borneo is the only remaining natural habitat of the orangutan, whose numbers have dwindled to less than 60,000 from a population that once spanned Southeast Asia.
“If I had gone to Sumatra, my life would be very different. It was fate that I came here,” says Galdikas.
There’s something eerily human about them
“Here” is Camp Leakey, an orangutan research and preservation centre, named after her old mentor, that now employs 200 assistants to observe the apes and safeguard their environment in Indonesian Borneo’s 400,000 hectare (988,000 acre) Tanjung Puting national park.
The camp, which now has a museum and a modest collection of wooden buildings (protected by orangutan-proof locks), is a far cry from the rudimentary hut that greeted 25-year-old Galdikas and her then husband, photographer Rod Brindamour, when they first set foot in Kalimantan’s dense uncharted forests.
Then, as now, Camp Leakey could only be reached by boat — a four hour chug up the crocodile-infested Sekonyer river under a canopy of trees filled with whooping gibbons and gravel-voiced hornbills.
Galdikas’ first stint at Leakey saw her wading neck-deep in mosquito-ridden swamps and enduring monsoon rains to track the orangutans as they swung from treetops. Her studies of their mating, grooming, feeding and fighting uncovered many startling similarities with our own species — discoveries which further fuelled her interest.
“I have always been fascinated by orangutans,” she says, a fact she proves a moment later when she picks up a camera to shoot pictures of Pedro, a powerful 250 pound (113 kilogram) male orangutan who looms out of the twilight near Galdikas’ house in the hope of finding food.
“There’s something about their eyes. There’s something eerily human about them.”
The Canadian’s findings took her onto the front pages of National Geographic, and earned her an academic acclaim that she has followed up with several books, the latest of which, “Great Ape Odyssey”, was published earlier this year.
Time is running out for the orangutans
But unwilling to abandon her new home and new friends, she returned again and again to Camp Leakey, furthering her studies and going on to establish the Orangutan Foundation, an organisation dedicated to saving the species from a looming extinction.
Massive deforestation in Borneo and Sumatra at the hands of illegal loggers, man-made forest fires, extensive gold mining and land clearing for oil palm plantations has seen a dramatic fall in the orangutan population in the past two decades, a decline Galdikas has struggled to keep in check.
“In the last 20 years, the population has probably dipped by at least 50 percent in Tanjung Puting,” she says.
“But the net effect of having Camp Leakey and people here for 34 years is that this forest has been almost totally protected from fires, illegal gold mining and illegal logging. If we hadn’t been here, it would have been destroyed.”
Camp Leakey came close to destruction five years ago when 300 armed illegal loggers occupied the area and began felling trees. The involvement of local police in their eviction marked a turning point for Tanjung Puting, which now has several US-funded security posts ensuring the forest’s protection.
However, environmental threats to the park and the rest of Borneo’s jungles remain, primarily from palm oil farmers who view the orangutan as a pest, often capturing them and selling them on for about 30 dollars — a pitiful sum compared to the thousands they trade for on the international black market, eventually winding up as exotic pets or exhibits in unethical zoos.
“Palm oil is the number one enemy of orangutans and all wildlife in Borneo,” says Galdikas.
“Time is running out for the orangutans because the palm oil plantations are spreading. Illegal logging may seem horrific, but at least illegal logging leaves some canopy in place. Palm oil plantations leave nothing.”
People think it’s glamourous
For all her efforts to protect the forest around her, the Borneo wilderness has repaid Galdikas, 58, with illness and isolation, taking its toll on her health and, at times, her family life.
Students visiting her at Camp Leakey are regaled with horror stories of atypical pneumonia and a particularly nasty bout of cholera that saw her lose 26 pounds in the space of a week. With her straggled, greying hair and weary demeanour, Galdikas is barely recognisable as the lithe young woman who once graced magazine covers.
“It’s a very hard life here. People think it’s glamourous — they see me sitting with an adult female orangutan next to me or they see me with an adult male like Pedro, they see me on the cover of National Geographic and they see me in a TV film and they think its exciting,” she says, referring to a documentary broadcast earlier this year in which she featured alongside Hollywood actress Julia Roberts.
“But it’s actually very hard and very gritty, and you don’t lead the most comfortable life in the world and your family complains.
“Your family makes sacrifices. My children, especially my two younger children, are very outspoken about that. I think it’s worth it, but if you ask them they might have a different answer. However, I think they’d say it’s worth it.”
Galdikas, now a grandmother and a mother of three children all in their 20s, divorced Brindamour after the couple had completed seven years in Borneo. He wanted to resettle back in North America and she was smitten with her jungle life. She later married a prominent local Indonesian and, although she divides her time between Tanjung Puting, Canada and California, she holds an Indonesian passport.
Isolation is no longer a problem. During her visits to Leakey, she is inundated with visitors from PhD research students to visitors paying thousands of dollars to join Galdikas at feeding sessions for orangutans that have been reclaimed from captivity and reintroduced into the jungles around the camp.
But despite the increasing demands on her time, her goal remains the preservation of the apes, 240 of which — some whose association with Camp Leakey dates back to the 1970s — are currently under the care of the Orangutan Foundation.
“We are going to prevent extinction from happening in Tanjung Puting and so far we’ve done a very good job.”
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February 27th, 2006
Throughout the Malay world, there survives a belief in the occult, the practice of which is the peaceful syncretism of local animism and the less orthodox Islam brought by Arab traders seven hundred years ago. Bawean Island practitioners of magic called dukuns have a reputation for being particularly skilled. I would have accepted their supernatural intervention in avoiding the nine-hour voyage by cargo ship to get there–a mere speck in the sea north of Indonesia’s eastern Java.
Bawean’s size belies its significance in Southeast Asian history. The islanders’ hard work ethic found deep appreciation in nineteenth century Singapore. Today, Baweanese comprise the second largest ethnic group of Singapore’s Malay community, one of whom invited me along on his next visit home.
Once aboard the rusting 2,000-ton vessel, my host suspended a hammock and went to sleep. Captain Mundiari courteously offered me his cabin for the night crossing but as the K.M. Pratini shuddered through rough seas and stars rocketed between black sky and blacker water, I opted for a plastic chair on deck where I could hang my dizzy head over the railing. Sympathetic crew squeezed by me on their trips to and from the wheelhouse.
All traffic to Bawean moves through its main town and port, Sangkapura. Many Baweanese men are sailors, on large and small vessels across the Indonesian archipelago and beyond; shipbuilders of aged hardwood supply boats called prahu; or fishermen, captains of tiny crafts called gukongs that are unique to Bawean, with white bodies, brightly painted prows and two supporting arms like a catamaran’s. In 1969, a gukong sailed safely to Singapore and back, a distance of 1,400 kilometers, a success viewed superstitiously by its solitary navigator who became a dukun upon his return. Many haven’t been so fortunate–the sea is a constant, reckoning force in the lives of an island culture. It didn’t seem implausible to me, colored as my theory was by motion sickness, that Baweanese consider magic a necessary means of survival.
Bawean means “sunlight exists” in Sanskrit, which is what fourteenth century shipwrecked sailors reportedly exclaimed upon seeing it under clear skies after days tossed about in stormy seas. At three in the morning, my first sight of Bawean–a roller coaster silhouette on a bobbing horizon–made its less romantic name of Big Mountain Island more meaningful, a reference to the ninety-nine hills that occupy its 200-kilometer length. On the summit of one, I imagined the animist King Babileono to have sat in power-rejuvenating meditation.
Not much is known about King Babileono. Documented history of Bawean begins with the arrival in the sixteenth century of Umar Masood who overthrew him. Both men used sorcery against each other, but Masood’s magical feats were made possible by God. This assured him of victory and a thirty-year reign during which his subjects embraced his new faith of Islam. Masood’s legacy is the 186 mosques on Bawean, at least one in every of its thirty villages and the religious instruction that begins earlier than government schooling for Bawean children.
There is no better guardian of the past than sixty-year-old K.H. Abdulrachman, the fifteenth descendant of Umar Masood, who lives in Sangkapura not far from where his revered ancestor is buried. His Bawean history, compiled in 1985 for the benefit of returning emigrants and their families, is an invaluable resource. Like Masood, he is a qualified disseminator of Islam as denoted by the distinguished title of Kiayi Haji that prefaces his name. His religious practice also reflects the ancient belief of prayer as power activated by divine words, the white as opposed to black magic used to an advantage by Masood and today as an antidote for sickness or to remove bad spells cast by malicious persons. During the recounting of his family’s story to me, a message arrived that someone was ill and needed his urgent help. He excused himself but didn’t go to the patient. He never left the house. His prayers traveled instead, when he blew gently upon a glass of water that he had inspired by intoning Koranic scripture.
Nominally secular, Indonesia has the world’s largest Muslim population. The religion’s historical stronghold is Java from where, legend has it, nine holy men or walis, helped further its expansion. One of these men may be buried on Bawean Island. It is more certain that the wife of one of the famous walis renounced her privileged life on Java for one of piety on Bawean. There are myths of Waliyah Zainab’s miracles–her rice bowl was never empty and her water pitcher always full to feed and quench the thirst of her many disciples, magical implements that are exhibited behind her shrine in Bawean’s Diponggo Village. To this day villagers speak the form of Javanese that Waliyah brought with her and not the Baweanese or modern Indonesian languages. Overseas Baweanese come to thank her for their safety and prosperity. That her grave has become an important pilgrimage site for men (those most likely to leave the island) is one of those perplexing gender subtleties of Islam. Waliyah adopted the religious life only in rebellion when her husband took a younger second wife.
Divorce is a Baweanese woman’s prerogative as well as a man’s. Many Baweanese women are married but alone, deciders of their fate, because their husbands are away for years, working. Men become “lost” said a family court lawyer, who settles about fifteen divorce cases a month in his Sangkapura jurisdiction. Because women often outnumber men, a local writer called his early 1990s book about Bawean “The Princess Island.” The royal label infers more choices than are available to the women who heed the religious dictates and customs that govern society. Their role models for independence are religious women. One of them complimented me when she said at my departure, “If you return to us as a religious teacher, you will have many followers.”
When the K. M. Pratini docked at Sangkapura, the first prayer call of the day had begun. We drove north along the east coast to my host’s village, his father’s birthplace, along one of Bawean’s three roads. The azan pursued us, each mosque staggering its beginning so that the summons surged and faded in tandem. From my seat in the back of the truck, I glimpsed pastoral beauty in the strengthening light–harvested rice paddies, swaying coconut palms and drifting fishing boats anchored off sandy beaches.
Bawean is not undiscovered: At any one time, a few dozen private sailboats anchor in sheltered bays and Balinese tour boats periodically discharge passengers on day trips, primarily to visit Danau Kastoba, a large lake where it is said that King Babileono conjured his charms. About twenty Asian tourists a month come to a mangrove forest–called White Beach for its pristine sand–to fish. The master gukong maker has accepted western students. In comparison, however, to the eastern Javanese city of Surabaya, where the use of small hand-held stop signs hanging at intersections are necessary to cross the street, Bawean remains a world apart, the 75 nautical miles a buffer between it and the outside. Baweanese attribute this cultural autonomy to their magic. They maintain that even Dutch colonizers failed to exploit the island–their repeated attempts to extract gold from the island’s mine all meeting with tragic accidents. The elders who remember the mine’s location will not disclose it for fear of spiritual retribution. A less paranormal indication of Bawean’s seclusion was the visit I was paid by the island’s suspicious representatives of Indonesian police.
In my Surabaya hotel room, the evening before my departure for Bawean, I had watched a female entertainer on television, dressed less conservatively than I, while in the screen’s upper corner a little beating drum signaled a prayer call. In the Baweanese towns of Sangkapura and Tambak, acceptable attire did not include a headscarf. In my host’s simple village of devout farmers, where the daily rhythm revolved around prayer times, I covered my head like every woman. It was hot beneath the scarf and difficult to keep in place while I moved about. A veil is not only an article of religious respect, but also enhances a woman’s beauty. My host’s housekeepers, in whose care I was placed, took me to the market to purchase a scarf more becoming than the one I had brought and two of finer material for them. They wore them with pride the day I departed and I was aware that when I removed mine, in their eyes I diminished my femininity.
The headscarf also concealed my differences. At night, the village women gathered at my host’s house for prayers, hour-long recitations of the Koran that became anticipated performances during my visit. Some were surprised at first that I didn’t know the Arabic passages, but as the week went on, they took their leave of me with a single hand raised to their breast in the Malay gesture of respect. Among them lived a centenarian, a woman of such fragility that I could encircle her forearm with my fingers. Yet she lived alone, a widow for decades, in the last mud-floored attap hut of its kind. She was my host’s grandmother and I was the first Caucasian woman that she had met.
When Lake Kastoba was King Babileono’s domain, it was taboo for women to set foot there. One acted as my cheerful escort, along with her husband and five of their nine children, who wanted to picnic and fish. We abandoned the truck after thirty minutes and climbed a steep hill, stopping to introduce me to curious residents who, back from their rice, peanut and cassava fields, rested on attap-surfaced wooden platforms outside their houses called dhurungs. Cultivated fields alternated with teak forests; Baweanese substitute the tree’s dinner-plate sized leaves for paper and plastic to package fresh produce at the markets.
Baweanese folklore maintains that Lake Kastoba was formed by a genie pulling up a tree. Others say that a special tree stands by the lake, its bark eternally free of moss and its falling leaves and branches disappearing before reaching the ground. The lake was a perfect setting for sorcerers: its thick surrounding vegetation dripped creepers and small fruit bats kissed its inky surface. We stayed for sunset, the children engrossed in their play. The photos that I took of this happy time were all inexplicably overexposed. I was not the first disappointed photographer. Professional cameramen, hired to photograph the lake from the air, gave up when film after exposed film remained mysteriously blank.
Upon my return from the lake, I felt a sudden ache in my knee that mystified me. The walk hadn’t been strenuous or difficult. I was still favoring one leg when I boarded the K.M. Pratini for Java. The captain and I greeted each other like old friends. He nodded knowingly when informed of my discomfort. Someone, he said, wanted me to stay longer on the island.
February 27th, 2006
Throughout the Malay world, there survives a belief in the occult, the practice of which is the peaceful syncretism of local animism and the less orthodox Islam brought by Arab traders seven hundred years ago. Bawean Island practitioners of magic called dukuns have a reputation for being particularly skilled. I would have accepted their supernatural intervention in avoiding the nine-hour voyage by cargo ship to get there–a mere speck in the sea north of Indonesia’s eastern Java.
Bawean’s size belies its significance in Southeast Asian history. The islanders’ hard work ethic found deep appreciation in nineteenth century Singapore. Today, Baweanese comprise the second largest ethnic group of Singapore’s Malay community, one of whom invited me along on his next visit home.
Once aboard the rusting 2,000-ton vessel, my host suspended a hammock and went to sleep. Captain Mundiari courteously offered me his cabin for the night crossing but as the K.M. Pratini shuddered through rough seas and stars rocketed between black sky and blacker water, I opted for a plastic chair on deck where I could hang my dizzy head over the railing. Sympathetic crew squeezed by me on their trips to and from the wheelhouse.
All traffic to Bawean moves through its main town and port, Sangkapura. Many Baweanese men are sailors, on large and small vessels across the Indonesian archipelago and beyond; shipbuilders of aged hardwood supply boats called prahu; or fishermen, captains of tiny crafts called gukongs that are unique to Bawean, with white bodies, brightly painted prows and two supporting arms like a catamaran’s. In 1969, a gukong sailed safely to Singapore and back, a distance of 1,400 kilometers, a success viewed superstitiously by its solitary navigator who became a dukun upon his return. Many haven’t been so fortunate–the sea is a constant, reckoning force in the lives of an island culture. It didn’t seem implausible to me, colored as my theory was by motion sickness, that Baweanese consider magic a necessary means of survival.
Bawean means “sunlight exists” in Sanskrit, which is what fourteenth century shipwrecked sailors reportedly exclaimed upon seeing it under clear skies after days tossed about in stormy seas. At three in the morning, my first sight of Bawean–a roller coaster silhouette on a bobbing horizon–made its less romantic name of Big Mountain Island more meaningful, a reference to the ninety-nine hills that occupy its 200-kilometer length. On the summit of one, I imagined the animist King Babileono to have sat in power-rejuvenating meditation.
Not much is known about King Babileono. Documented history of Bawean begins with the arrival in the sixteenth century of Umar Masood who overthrew him. Both men used sorcery against each other, but Masood’s magical feats were made possible by God. This assured him of victory and a thirty-year reign during which his subjects embraced his new faith of Islam. Masood’s legacy is the 186 mosques on Bawean, at least one in every of its thirty villages and the religious instruction that begins earlier than government schooling for Bawean children.
There is no better guardian of the past than sixty-year-old K.H. Abdulrachman, the fifteenth descendant of Umar Masood, who lives in Sangkapura not far from where his revered ancestor is buried. His Bawean history, compiled in 1985 for the benefit of returning emigrants and their families, is an invaluable resource. Like Masood, he is a qualified disseminator of Islam as denoted by the distinguished title of Kiayi Haji that prefaces his name. His religious practice also reflects the ancient belief of prayer as power activated by divine words, the white as opposed to black magic used to an advantage by Masood and today as an antidote for sickness or to remove bad spells cast by malicious persons. During the recounting of his family’s story to me, a message arrived that someone was ill and needed his urgent help. He excused himself but didn’t go to the patient. He never left the house. His prayers traveled instead, when he blew gently upon a glass of water that he had inspired by intoning Koranic scripture.
Nominally secular, Indonesia has the world’s largest Muslim population. The religion’s historical stronghold is Java from where, legend has it, nine holy men or walis, helped further its expansion. One of these men may be buried on Bawean Island. It is more certain that the wife of one of the famous walis renounced her privileged life on Java for one of piety on Bawean. There are myths of Waliyah Zainab’s miracles–her rice bowl was never empty and her water pitcher always full to feed and quench the thirst of her many disciples, magical implements that are exhibited behind her shrine in Bawean’s Diponggo Village. To this day villagers speak the form of Javanese that Waliyah brought with her and not the Baweanese or modern Indonesian languages. Overseas Baweanese come to thank her for their safety and prosperity. That her grave has become an important pilgrimage site for men (those most likely to leave the island) is one of those perplexing gender subtleties of Islam. Waliyah adopted the religious life only in rebellion when her husband took a younger second wife.
Divorce is a Baweanese woman’s prerogative as well as a man’s. Many Baweanese women are married but alone, deciders of their fate, because their husbands are away for years, working. Men become “lost” said a family court lawyer, who settles about fifteen divorce cases a month in his Sangkapura jurisdiction. Because women often outnumber men, a local writer called his early 1990s book about Bawean “The Princess Island.” The royal label infers more choices than are available to the women who heed the religious dictates and customs that govern society. Their role models for independence are religious women. One of them complimented me when she said at my departure, “If you return to us as a religious teacher, you will have many followers.”
When the K. M. Pratini docked at Sangkapura, the first prayer call of the day had begun. We drove north along the east coast to my host’s village, his father’s birthplace, along one of Bawean’s three roads. The azan pursued us, each mosque staggering its beginning so that the summons surged and faded in tandem. From my seat in the back of the truck, I glimpsed pastoral beauty in the strengthening light–harvested rice paddies, swaying coconut palms and drifting fishing boats anchored off sandy beaches.
Bawean is not undiscovered: At any one time, a few dozen private sailboats anchor in sheltered bays and Balinese tour boats periodically discharge passengers on day trips, primarily to visit Danau Kastoba, a large lake where it is said that King Babileono conjured his charms. About twenty Asian tourists a month come to a mangrove forest–called White Beach for its pristine sand–to fish. The master gukong maker has accepted western students. In comparison, however, to the eastern Javanese city of Surabaya, where the use of small hand-held stop signs hanging at intersections are necessary to cross the street, Bawean remains a world apart, the 75 nautical miles a buffer between it and the outside. Baweanese attribute this cultural autonomy to their magic. They maintain that even Dutch colonizers failed to exploit the island–their repeated attempts to extract gold from the island’s mine all meeting with tragic accidents. The elders who remember the mine’s location will not disclose it for fear of spiritual retribution. A less paranormal indication of Bawean’s seclusion was the visit I was paid by the island’s suspicious representatives of Indonesian police.
In my Surabaya hotel room, the evening before my departure for Bawean, I had watched a female entertainer on television, dressed less conservatively than I, while in the screen’s upper corner a little beating drum signaled a prayer call. In the Baweanese towns of Sangkapura and Tambak, acceptable attire did not include a headscarf. In my host’s simple village of devout farmers, where the daily rhythm revolved around prayer times, I covered my head like every woman. It was hot beneath the scarf and difficult to keep in place while I moved about. A veil is not only an article of religious respect, but also enhances a woman’s beauty. My host’s housekeepers, in whose care I was placed, took me to the market to purchase a scarf more becoming than the one I had brought and two of finer material for them. They wore them with pride the day I departed and I was aware that when I removed mine, in their eyes I diminished my femininity.
The headscarf also concealed my differences. At night, the village women gathered at my host’s house for prayers, hour-long recitations of the Koran that became anticipated performances during my visit. Some were surprised at first that I didn’t know the Arabic passages, but as the week went on, they took their leave of me with a single hand raised to their breast in the Malay gesture of respect. Among them lived a centenarian, a woman of such fragility that I could encircle her forearm with my fingers. Yet she lived alone, a widow for decades, in the last mud-floored attap hut of its kind. She was my host’s grandmother and I was the first Caucasian woman that she had met.
When Lake Kastoba was King Babileono’s domain, it was taboo for women to set foot there. One acted as my cheerful escort, along with her husband and five of their nine children, who wanted to picnic and fish. We abandoned the truck after thirty minutes and climbed a steep hill, stopping to introduce me to curious residents who, back from their rice, peanut and cassava fields, rested on attap-surfaced wooden platforms outside their houses called dhurungs. Cultivated fields alternated with teak forests; Baweanese substitute the tree’s dinner-plate sized leaves for paper and plastic to package fresh produce at the markets.
Baweanese folklore maintains that Lake Kastoba was formed by a genie pulling up a tree. Others say that a special tree stands by the lake, its bark eternally free of moss and its falling leaves and branches disappearing before reaching the ground. The lake was a perfect setting for sorcerers: its thick surrounding vegetation dripped creepers and small fruit bats kissed its inky surface. We stayed for sunset, the children engrossed in their play. The photos that I took of this happy time were all inexplicably overexposed. I was not the first disappointed photographer. Professional cameramen, hired to photograph the lake from the air, gave up when film after exposed film remained mysteriously blank.
Upon my return from the lake, I felt a sudden ache in my knee that mystified me. The walk hadn’t been strenuous or difficult. I was still favoring one leg when I boarded the K.M. Pratini for Java. The captain and I greeted each other like old friends. He nodded knowingly when informed of my discomfort. Someone, he said, wanted me to stay longer on the island.
February 27th, 2006
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